


Bones & Skin

by proximally



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (or at least an attempt at it), Arguing, Bad Puns, Body Horror, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nonbinary Frisk, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, do I need to tag that?, implied and sometimes blatant self-hatred, implied child neglect, nonbinary chara, now with 100 percent more illustrations!, redemption for chara, spoilers for all routes, tags updated as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proximally/pseuds/proximally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a violent assault on their way home from school, Frisk acquires a passenger. Or, more accurately, a co-pilot. Neither of them are particularly pleased by this arrangement.</p><p>[ discontinued, sorry :/ ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. your friendly neighbourhood psychopath

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _You’ve got pain, caused plenty of_  
>  _It’s not so strange, but now you’ve had enough_  
>  _Don’t forget your bones and skin_  
>  _Or where you go, or where you’ve been._  
>  -Mirah, _Bones & Skin_

Frisk is a quiet child.

It’s what they’re known for, really, and it’s something remarked upon by friends and family and teachers alike, a staple of their report card since there’s been a report card to be had. _Needs to speak up more in class,_ comments the history teacher. _Don’t be afraid to share your ideas!_ encourages the English teacher. _Responding to the register would be a start,_ says the maths teacher wryly, after one too many erroneous absences. It doesn’t work, of course. That’s just Frisk. A quiet child.

They’re quiet in more than just speech, too. They’re good at walking without making noise, and while this is an excellent advantage for midnight snack heists, there’s the added benefit of being able to sneak up on friends and family. They delight in it, stalking their prey on silent sockèd feet, and pouncing when they least expect it - a gentle tap on their victim’s back. Sometimes they don’t even bother with the sneaking; they’re good enough at standing still that they can tuck themself just out of the way, and wait until their unsuspecting quarry passes by.

There’ve been accidents, of course - the time they startled Papyrus into a fountain springs to mind - but they’ve developed an eye for risk. It is, after all, eighty percent of their name. They know their targets very well, and they’ve gotten good at deciphering body language - jumping an angry Undyne is just asking for trouble, Sans can react violently to sudden striped sweaters, and, frankly, Alphys is jittery enough without Frisk’s help. There’s no malice to it, of course; this is Frisk, after all, and it’s not as if their friends have never returned the favour. Some of their weeks-long prank wars may yet pass into legend.

Really, they just appreciate how their friends don’t expect them to speak. The rare times they do, there’s no fuss, either - no, _it talks!_ or, _hm, I’ve never heard_ that _voice before..._ They’ve always preferred to listen, and they like to be sure of their words before they say anything. Not everyone they’ve known has understood that, and all too often they’ve been passed over and ignored for their quietude. It’s good to listen, but it’s also good to be listened to. They’ve never talked about the time before they Fell, and certainly nobody has ever asked, but the way their face lights up when their opinions are considered seriously is at once heartening and heartbreaking.

Frisk is a quiet child, and while this is usually just fine, it is not a virtue when they are assaulted in a back-alley by a knife-wielding xenophobe twice their height and three times their width.

Frisk usually loves the walk home from their school. They know all the houses with pets, and their journey can take significantly longer than it should if they’re greeted by any of the neighbourhood cats, most of whom they know by name. They like to be out in the fresh air and sunlight, breathing in the familiar sights and sounds, taking note of the smallest daily changes. Today, however, winter is making itself known; they’d usually have waited at school and got a lift from their mother, but seeing as how she’d be in a parent-teacher conference for another couple of hours, they’d decided to brave the elements alone.

But...it’s dark, and it’s cold, and frankly they’re not dressed quite right for this weather, so they make the mistake of taking a shortcut. It’s hardly the first time they’ve taken it, and anyway, hadn’t the forecast predicted rain? They don’t even have a coat.  It wouldn’t hurt, they reassure themself. They’d crossed the underground alone aged nine, they could surely take a little alleyway aged fifteen.

It does hurt. It hurts a lot.

Their hesitation to call out costs them dearly, and before they know it fingers the size of sausages wrap around their neck to choke the life out of them, and as the pressure builds in their chest the man spews invectives and abuse that even Undyne would’ve been shaken by, sprays sour alcoholic spittle in their face with every word, _you and those fucking monsters--_

Frisk is feeling faint, their lungs are screaming for air they can’t provide, and they couldn’t call for help if they tried. They haven’t SAVEd in years, Toriel is at school, Asgore in an ambassadorial meeting, Alphys is sick and Undyne with her, and Papyrus and Sans are at work… It’s doubtful that they’d be missed for another few hours, and by then? Well. They don’t really want to waste the precious few seconds they have left thinking about _that_.

They search frantically for an escape, a way out, anything that could save them, any option, any clue, _anythi_ \-- oh.

Oh.

Sticking out of the man’s waistband is the hilt of what they distinctly recognise as a knife. He must’ve stuck it there so he could strangle them better. Frisk’s arms are not so short, and the blade not so far away that they couldn’t just reach out and take it. They try calling out, one last time, but the scream that bubbles up from their agonised lungs gets stuck halfway.

Eyes, wide with terror, suddenly snap into focus, assessing the situation. The thug doesn’t notice, so intent is he on murdering the ‘devil’s ambassador’. He does, however, notice when his own knife is plunged into his gut.

He screams in agony, stumbling backwards, and you collapse heavily against the wall, coughing and heaving like an asthmatic after a sprint. There are spots dancing in front of your eyes and you feel like throwing up, but that would be the worst possible kind of introduction so you force it back. Instead, you glance around, at the dark, light-polluted sky far above, at the filthy floor you’re sat on, and at the man writhing in pain and making the alley even filthier. Red spreads across his already-stained shirt like a blooming flower, and between gasps you feel the edges of your mouth curl up into a smile.

Figures, doesn’t it? Your life in a nutshell, even now you’re dead.

“What a thing to wake up to,” you breathe, because any louder and you think you might find out exactly what this body had for lunch. Because it’s clearly not yours, oh no, yours has probably rotted to pieces if it hadn’t been cremated, and even if neither of those were true your arms have never been this big, nor your legs so long, and you’re also pretty sure your sweater collection does not include maroon. You faintly appreciate the way the blood blends in with the fabric, though.

Slowly you get to your feet. Your head spins from the change in elevation, but you push on, and drag yourself to the man’s side. He’s still moaning, clutching his wound. Idiot. Attacking some kid in a dark alleyway, what did he expect? You crouch down, and wrench the knife from where it’s stuck. He screams, even louder than before,and your lip curls. What a baby. It’s been so long since you’ve seen anyone bleed but yourself, you’ve almost missed it.

You weigh the knife in your shaky hand. It’s strong, well-made, and the edge is well-cared for. Your smile grows. “You have a good taste in weaponry,” you tell the man, not that he’s listening. A painful cough wracks your body, and once it’s passed you’re still grinning. “Or had. Haha.” You wipe the worst of the blood off on his gross shirt, and stagger again to your feet. You turn to leave, but hesitate. In as strong a voice as you can muster, you tell him, “You think monsters are bad? I hate to break it to you, buddy, but humans are _so much worse._ ” You kick him in the groin, _hard_ , and stumble away towards the safe glow of streetlights.


	2. inappropriate levels of sarcasm

You don’t stop moving until you’re well within the orange cone of light of a streetlamp. You dump what must be your body’s bag on the ground - a purple backpack, dotted liberally with stickers and doodles, though it is kinda difficult to see in this light. You slump beside it, still trembling; if the wall wasn’t there, you’d be horizontal.

 _* W-what...what the hell just happened?_ says a little voice in your head, and it’s a testament to your character (ha) that your first impulse is chastise them for their vocabulary. They sound as shaken as you feel; well, assuming this is your host, they _did_ just watch themself stab a man and laugh about it. Their shock is understandable.

As for their question...well. Last thing you knew, you were dead, so this has all come as something of a surprise.

But...that’s not quite true, is it?

“You called. I came.” It’s as close to the truth as you can manage when it’s painful just to breathe. Honestly, a broken bone would’ve been preferable to this.

They mull it over. You know from experience that they can feel every hurt that you do, so you’re hopeful that this won’t turn into an interrogation. _* Who are you?_

“...Call me Chara,” you tell them.

_* ...Chara._

“Mhm.”

_* ...like the first human._

“Mhm. Directions?” you ask, because it’s getting really quite chilly and you don’t know what the time is, but you doubt that was the only drunk thug in town. Whatever town this is. And...you don’t much want to think about the implications of being the _first_ human. Or that there may be monsters on the Surface now. Or how if that was recent, then you… No. Move on.

_* You…_

“Saved your butt. _Our_ butt, now.” You’ll be damned if you’re leaving anytime soon, even if you did k now how. Being dead is boring, and _sure_ , being alive is painful, but hasn’t it always been? That’s no reason to give up. Your host is just gonna have to learn to share.

_* You...you just stabbed that guy. With my hands._

You snort. “No. Used a knife.” Hands would be far too blunt to stab anyone. C’mon, keep up.

They make an irritated noise. Apparently this is not an appropriate time for jokes. You wonder how this relationship is going to work when your partner is such a spoilsport.

“Directions?” you ask, again. You’re getting kinda impatient now. You just woke up, you’re cold and hungry and hurt, and also splattered with blood. Which isn’t _that_ bothersome, in the scheme of things, but it’s drying and your sleeves are getting stiff and gross. Yet another point to the monsters, you think: at least dust isn’t _sticky_.

 _* I...I don’t think I want to…_ Oh, so they have a backbone, after all? Alright. You’re not above compromise.

You sigh dramatically, and let the knife fall from your hand. “Shame.”

_* …_

You sigh again, more genuinely, and roll your eyes. “Phonebox? To call the police.” It would be a shame to waste all that effort you made earlier and, besides, where’s the pleasure in winning if the loser isn't alive to know they've lost?

Which is a pitiful reassurance by anyone's standards, but for now you’ll cling to it.

_* ...I have a mobile. It’s in my pocket._

“Our,” you correct, and rummage around in the pockets of your jeans. Your hand - still coated in partially dry blood that would surely have made your host cringe if they were in control - emerges with the device. “Wow,” you croak, marvelling at its streamlined design. It looks so future-y, all shiny and chrome. You like the dinosaur stickers, too. “So _thin_. How do I work it?”

 _* There’s a button on the top. Slide, um, a_ clean _finger over the screen…_

They explain for some time. You are very much unused to such cool new technology and while one part of you wonders quite how long it’s been, you’re much more excited by the prospect of playing with it later. This is probably why you nearly jump out of your host’s skin and drop the phone when it starts vibrating in your hands.

 _* Someone’s calling,_ they supply helpfully. _* Press the green button, put it to y-_

“I know how to use a phone!” you hiss, doing exactly that. “What do I s-?”

_“Frisk?”_

You freeze.

_“Frisk, are you there? The meeting is over, but your mother says she is running late and asked if I could drop by the house and make sure you had arrived home safely. You do not seem to be here, however. Where are you?”_

“...D...Dad…?”

_“Frisk? Frisk, are you alright? You sound upset. What has happened?”_

An odd noise, halfway between sniff and squeak, bubbles up from your abused lungs, and the loudness of it coupled with a sudden wetness on your face makes you drop the phone again. You scrabble for it with bloody fingers, and jam it against your ear just in time to hear _“-sk! Hold on, I am coming! I will be there as soon as I can!”_ before the phone clicks and goes silent.

 _* He didn’t even ask where I am…_ says Frisk, faintly concerned.

You feel like throwing up again. How long’s it been since you’ve heard that voice? And, _god_ , of all the heads you could’ve woken up in, you woke up in the one that…

Deep breaths. Don’t be sick. Your eyes drift to the knife abandoned by your foot.

_* Are you okay?_

“...yeah. Yes.” You sniff again, and wipe your face on the part of your sleeve that’s not spotted with blood. Your eyes are probably red and irritated by now, but at least your expression is composed again. No more weakness. You speak up again, and though it hurts, you do not let your voice waver. “Is it still 911 for the police?”

 

**.\|/.**

 

You rapidly regret waking up. Well, not quite. It’s nice to be able to feel again, even if all there is to feel right now is pain and frustration. It’s all just so _slow_ and _boring_. The paramedics fuss over you for what feels like an eternity, poking and prodding and examining you with what honestly looks like a barcode scanner with a screen. Several times, actually, and you learn that for all technology’s advances, the treatment for malfunctioning electronics is still the classic ‘hit it until it works again’ method. Your already-limited tolerance for physical contact soon wears thin, however, and with only a minor eyeroll, one gets you to rub some nasty-coloured cream into the bruising around your throat. It’s gross, and several times you press a little too hard, but after a few minutes the pain is numbed. The miracles of modern medicine.

Different officers ask the same questions over and over - _tell us what happened, in detail. did you know this man? have you seen him before? can you tell us your parents’ phone numbers?_ The police even took the nice knife - as evidence, they said. You have to try very hard not to look disappointed.

Honestly, you’re done enough that you’re about to throw in the towel and just storm away, darn the consequences, when D- Asgore turns up - the looks on the officers’ faces are _priceless_. You wish you had a camera. Because the cops were well aware that the victim was the Ambassador of Monsterkind - more aware than _you_ were, that’s for sure - but that couldn’t prepare them for the eight foot monster king who, in his panic, had actually sprinted all the way here.

“Frisk!” His eyes light up as he spots you, sat on the lip of the second ambulance with the one medic you could just about stand to let touch you. She’s older middle-aged, you think, and wears her greyed hair proudly. She’s been polite and efficient, and quickly cut out the sympathy when she saw your grimacing. It’s still just as funny to see her face when she registers Asgore barrelling towards you, all the humans in his way parting before him like the Red Sea. He scoops you up into his arms despite her protests to the contrary, and despite how much bigger this body is compared to your own, you feel just as small. Automatically, your own arms make a valiant attempt at encircling his neck, reminiscent of times long since passed, but then you realise what you’re doing and jerk your arms into a less comfortable, but more respectful position. You don’t know for sure what Frisk’s relationship with him is like, after all. It’s definitely not because of the embarrassing wetness developing around your eyes again.

He notices your discomfort at once, just like he always used to. Carefully Asgore places you back on the ground, and the slight hurt in his expression makes you feel uncomfortably guilty. “I’m okay,” you tell him, which is a _blatant_ lie, and you take his huge paw in your tiny bloodied hands and squeeze it. He smiles, a little, but you know the worry remains.

“I have called your mother, but I have asked her not to inform any of the others for now; I did not think it best to panic them all. I do not know if anyone has made any other calls?” he says, looking in askance at the paramedic, hovering awkwardly nearby.

“Oh, uh, just to yourself and their mother, sir,” she says.

“Thank you, doctor,” he replies, genuinely. “Might I inquire as to the rest of the procedure?”

“Of course, sir,” she says and you can just _see_ her slipping back into her comfort zone. “I’ve written up a prescription for them already; I assume you know the pharmacy on Leopold Street? They’ll have everything you need.” She turns to you. “No solid food for at least the next seven days, to give your throat a rest - though, be warned, eating and drinking anything might be painful for a little while yet.” She hands you something that looks not unlike a receipt, except instead of groceries it lists potential complications of strangulation and things to look out for. On the back is your prescription. “If you experience anything on this list - like changes in your vision or migraines, any trouble with your breathing - or literally anything else abnormal, see your GP _immediately_. I’ve already contacted them to set up an appointment for you next week - they’ll have emailed you a time and date by tomorrow. It’s just a check-up, but it’s necessary - make sure you get their permission before you have any solids, okay?”

You nod dutifully.

She finally draws a breath, and looks back at Asgore. “Since the police have the attacker in custody, and Frisk has already made their statement, it won’t be necessary for them to go down to the station - though you will at some point need to speak to an officer about legal matters, I’m sure. You’ll be kept up to date with the assailant’s recovery, if you wish.” She breathes again, and you wonder if maybe she was once an opera singer, because she certainly has the lungs for it. “The only thing that matters for now, though, is getting your prescription filled. We’ve got everything covered here, so you’re free to go.”

You and Asgore just nod dumbly, and exchange a glance. The health service sure is efficient these days.

 

**.\|/.**

 

 _* So,_ says Frisk, very nearly giving you a heart attack, which would be a poor way to thank them for calling you back into existence, really.

You’re currently lying on the wonderfully fluffy-carpeted floor of Frisk’s bedroom, exploring the contents of their phone. It’s so unlike anything you’d got used to, both before you fell and after - you remember a time when Nokias were, like, the big thing. If you had a Nokia, you were the coolest kid in school. And now? Now, all you can find is some ancient meme and a few articles about some science museum somewhere.

 _This_ phone has a folding touch screen so thin you’d mistake it for paper, and most of its thickness is taken up by a little pull-out keyboard, presumably for if you found the on-screen one too fiddly. There’s so many different games on it you’d had trouble deciding what to play first; ultimately you decide that the one where you wipe out the entire world with a horrible disease is your favourite. It’s a huge improvement on Snake, that’s for sure, even if the menu uses some weird illegible font. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because the ‘play’ button is recognisable regardless.

“So, what?” you say, upping your bacterium’s resistance to heat. Oh, Madagascar is in for it now.

_* So, you never really answered my question._

“What question?” Stupid Greenland shut down their ports. Should’ve gone for cold resistance.

_* What happened back there?  I thought...they all told me you were dead._

“True.” Oho, but now Madagascar is _yours_. You’ll destroy humanity yet.

_* But you’re not._

“I am absolutely dead. Have you never heard of ghosts?” The cure research is getting dangerously high. That worries you.

 _* I- well, yes, but they inhabit objects, not- not_ people- _-_

“I take it they’re monster ghosts?” Greenland still resists. What? You could’ve sworn you’d seen the notification for its infection... This is bad.

_* Does that make a difference?_

“Did nobody mention that human Souls tend to linger?” You’re killing faster than you’re infecting.

 _* ...yeah._ Their little voice is even quieter than normal. Maybe you hit a nerve? Who cares, you’re about to _lose_ \-- _* But...didn’t Asriel absorb your Soul?_

 _DEFEAT: With a cure to knives deployed, all living humans became immune._ God _damn_ it. You put the phone down beside you and glare up at the ceiling. “I guess,” you concede, because, really, what else is there to say? You’re not a soul-ologist. Is necrology a thing? You know necromancy is a word, but if anyone here is a necromancer, it’s probably Frisk.

They fall silent. Thinking, perhaps. They seem to do a lot of that - they’ve barely commented between Asgore’s phonecall and you lying on their floor like a human rug, and infodumping for the police’s sake doesn’t count. They haven’t even tried to wrest back control of their body - not for M- _Toriel’s_ panicky hugs, not for the pharmacy visit (though you hardly blame them for that one), and not even for _hot chocolate_. You ask them as much, because, _really?_ What kind of madman would _willingly_ give up the experience of hot chocolate?

_* I guess...I just thought, you probably haven’t tasted anything in a long time._

“It’s been over a hundred years,” you agree. The first thing you did with the phone was find the calendar. It’s been a long ol’ time since you were here last.

 _* And...I thought you needed a hug,_ they tell you, solemnly. _* They’re your parents, too._

You...can’t quite bring yourself to disagree.

But.

But you’d realised, a long time ago, that you don’t deserve to call them family. Not with what you’ve done. That slip, earlier? Just a slip. A simple error. Just like all the other mistakes that characterise your life.

Yet what’s done is done and cannot be undone, and though you’ve been awake for only a few hours you suddenly feel as tired as if you’d spent all those years conscious. Certainly your train of thought is going in weird, unwanted directions. You turn the phone off, and ask Frisk where they keep their pyjamas.

You think maybe they sigh at your evasion of the topic, but _look_ \- it’s none of their business, they’re not your friend. They’re barely an acquaintance. They don’t really care, so you won’t care to tell them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh the #1 reason I won't let Chara swear properly is as a challenge to myself, bc I feel like I'm over-reliant on curses in writing. 
> 
> reason #2 is that I thought it would be funnier if frisk, child of sweetness and light, was more of a pottymouth than the hellspawn demonchild, who instead has acquired a swear jar for them. 
> 
> it is. it is a lot funnier.
> 
> (p.s. if you catch the references, brief as they are, please give yourself a hug from me. that is all.)


	3. maybe you're satan

You wake up.

It’s still dark out, and when you check Frisk’s phone, it tells you it’s precisely 5:28 AM. Which is altogether far too early, regardless the time you need to be getting up, and you immediately decide to go back to sleep. So what if you’d slept for a hundred years already?

Not that you’d call it sleeping, in anything but the most euphemistic sense of the word. You were dead. You’re not afraid to admit that, though you’ve noticed it makes Frisk twitchy. You were dead and you _remain_ dead, and the only difference is that now you’re slightly more aware of your situation, which the vast majority of dead people aren’t. Really, it’s about the only thing you’re sure of. You… fell. You lived. You died. There was the mess with A- with the Barrier. And then...nothing. Or mostly nothing. Little enough of something for the something to be utterly negligible and statistically insignificant.

And frankly that’s enough philosophy for five in the morning. What woke you, anyway? You’re perfectly warm enough, you’re not thirsty, you don’t need the bathroom. Your feet are still nice and warm and be-socked (much to Frisk’s irritation, though why they think trying to sleep with cold feet is a reasonable idea is beyond you). A noise, then? If it’s repeated itself in the time you’ve been awake, then you didn’t notice. You listen for a moment.

… nothing happens. Hn. You roll over. Now is time for sleep, not detective work. You can investigate at a saner time.

You’re drifting off again when you hear it. A little squeak, close by. You frown, squinting into the darkness, and you remember the phone has a torch function. Methodically you search the room from where you’re safely tucked in bed (no sense getting up for no reason).

There’s still nothing.

As you lie down once more, curling into the duvet, you hear it again and that’s when you realise it’s all in your head - which, honestly, is a phrase that has some interesting connotations nowadays.

“Frisk?” you whisper. No response. You try again, louder, but they don’t make a sound. Are they still asleep? God, don’t say they’re asleep like you were, you’ve still got no idea what’s going on and you can’t hope to--

Not a squeak this time, but a straight-up sob. You’re immediately wide awake. “Frisk? What’s the matter?” Still no answer. Could they...could they be caught in a nightmare?

You slip out of bed and flip the light switch, blinding yourself in the process. Now what…? Ah, yes.

There’s a gasp and heavy breathing in the back of your head.

 _* Chara?_ they ask after a moment, voice shaky.

“You okay?” you ask, and to be honest you’re still not sure why you’re so concerned. You’ve known them for like, six hours, all told. But then again, possessing someone is not your usual way of meeting them, so it could just be that.

 _* Did you...did you really have to bite my hand? Your hand. Our hand._ They sound offended, and they’re changing the subject. You can respect that. You don’t care _that_ much.

“Absolutely,” you say. “Didn’t the history books mention the cannibalism?”

Frisk giggles, weakly, and you refuse to acknowledge the little bubble of pride that brings you.  _* No, they didn’t. Should I get Mum to tell the authors?_

“No, you’ll spoil my image. I have a reputation to uphold, surely.”

There’s a silence, and you think maybe you’ve said the wrong thing. You’ve... never really considered how people would have remembered you, until now. Frisk recognised your name, and though they weren’t best pleased with the revelation, you’ll admit that neither would you be if you’d been in their position. Or at least, that’s what you’d assumed. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe everyone thinks you’re Satan, and they’re happy you’re dead. That’s depressing.

 _* …I don’t really know_ , they say at last. _* It’s been a long time, and I don’t think there’s many who remember you as a person. It’s like...it’s like that American president, the one that got shot. It’s horrible, and everyone agrees it was a tragedy, but you never knew them? They just...existed. And then they got shot. And that was bad. I don’t know. People say, oh, what a good president he was, so great, and others say, no, you’re wrong, and so was he… I don’t know._

You’re quiet a moment. You get what they’re saying: you’re a historical figure, now. You’re only real to the few people who knew you - and Frisk, but you guess they count as knowing you now. It’s...sad. You’d thought about this yesterday, how everybody you knew before is probably dead except D- Asgore and Toriel and maybe a few rare others, but only now is it really sinking in.

You remember walking hand-in-hand with Toriel an- in the little marketplace of Home; you’d always been a little scared because there were so many people around, and even though they weren’t humans it made you nervous. Th- She hadn’t let go of you once for the whole trip. You remember becoming more confident, after a while: you never went alone, but sometimes you’d wander and you’d marvel at the vendors’ wares, and they’d smile at you and say, _good morning, your Highness_ , which always made you blush because, well, it’s not like you deserved it. You’ll never see them again, and if ever you’re again addressed as such it’ll be because Frisk is their Majesties’ adopted child as well, and not because they know you’re in here too.

But that’s definitely enough melancholy for today. Or any day.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence. “Asgore said something about ‘not panicking the others’, yesterday?”

You sense them forming a question, but ultimately they go with your change of subject. Tit for tat, and all. _* My friends,_ they say.

“Humans?” God, you hope not.

 _* No, I met them all underground,_ they say, and you can already hear the fondness in their voice. _* There’s Papyrus and Sans, they’re skeleton brothers…_

You listen as they regale you with the tales of how they met their extended family, and though you’re not sure you believe them totally (they burned Undyne’s house down, and then they were best friends? oh _please_ , if only that were true), the stories are still entertaining and isn’t that all that matters?

Frisk is telling you about the time they fought a robot on TV when you hear a commotion from downstairs. Two incredibly loud and unfamiliar voices and then the low tones of Asgore, probably trying to calm them down. Frisk had been pretty surprised when he’d decided to stay the night in one of the guest rooms, and more so that Toriel had let him - you think it’s kinda sad that they’re only barely on speaking terms when you remember them as being _sickeningly_ affectionate. You suppose you’ve only yourself to blame.

There’s footsteps on the stairs, soft but heavy, and soon Toriel pokes her head around the door. You’re quite clearly awake, if a little sleepy for having woken up so early, but it’s nearing nine, she says, and your friends want to see you. Or rather, Frisk’s friends want to see _them_. They don’t know you exist. Toriel advises you to get dressed - the house is chilly this morning, pyjamas won’t do - and come down for breakfast. It’ll be soup, as it will for the next week, and you know both you and Frisk will be sick of it by the end, but for now, hey - food is food, and you’re getting hungry. You give her a nod, and slip out of bed as she goes back downstairs.

“I think I’ll hand this one over to you,” you say, stepping down. _* From your stories, I’m not sure I really want to deal with this._ You really don’t. Not even the promise of chocolate could tempt you to deal with this.

“They’re not all bad,” they say, and their voice is a lot softer than it ever was when you were at the helm. It suits them.

You snort. _* I’ll take your word for it._

Frisk dresses themself slowly; you think they must be getting used to being in control again, because it sure feels weird to _not_ be. You wonder if this is what being a puppet would feel like. They pull on the baggiest hoodie you’ve ever laid eyes on and a pair of fluffy slippers, then make their way downstairs.

The sight that greets you is a cluster of incredibly anxious monsters. Toriel is seated in the armchair next to the fireplace (the same as ever; that’s always been her spot), and Asgore is at the other end of the room, the furthest possible point away. It makes you feel a little guilty. The other four monsters you’ve never seen: two skeletons, short and tall, a fish-woman who looks _extraordinarily_ badass, and a yellow lizard-lady smothered in a blanket, a box of tissues by her side.

They’re all talking when you walk in, but the moment they spot you, they go silent. Frisk smiles and waves.

“FRISK!!” The fish - Undyne, right? - and the tall skeleton - darn, what was his name? - scramble to their feet and practically launch themselves at you in their haste. Undyne, with a sharp-toothed grin, picks you up as if you weighed nothing.

 _* So cool_ , you whisper. Frisk giggles, and you just _know_ it’s at you; you’d scowl at them if you could.

“Undyne,” they say, probably for your benefit, and they wrap their noodle arms around her. They introduce you to the rest in the same way, but it’s clear to you that none of them are anywhere near as cool as Undyne.

Frisk spends what feels like forever being hugged and petted and sympathised at by everyone in the room, until Toriel decides it’s time you had some breakfast and everybody else decides they want to join you.

“hey, kid,” says a voice behind you. Frisk turns, smiling; it’s the short skeleton. Sans. “i’m glad you’re ok. you sound like you had...a bad time.” Frisk’s smile droops a little at the edges as they nod. Sans is more right than he knows; they’ve really had a bad time lately. The assault, you, the nightmare, their physics homework...It seems kinda unfair, and their stomach grumbles in agreement. “heh. sorry, bud. let’s go get some food in you. i’d suggest dunking some bread, but no solids, right?” Frisk shakes their head, making a face. Sans laughs, and leads you to the kitchen table.

Frisk sits themself between Asgore and Undyne, for which you silently thank them for. Alphys is on her other side, the skeleton brothers sit across from you, and yo- Frisk’s parents sit at opposite ends of the table. Or would be, if Toriel wasn’t cooking.

Frisk is quite content to just sit and listen to their friends talk - about their jobs, the weather, politics, their neighbour’s new puppy. You, meanwhile, are slightly dumbfounded by Undyne and Papyrus’ vigorous debate on the subject of spaghetti soup and the merits thereof, complete with fist-shaking and the occasional thump and rattle as one of them accidentally punches the table and disturbs the silverware.

You are reevaluating your perceived veracity of Frisk’s claims. These monsters are ridiculous.

_* They’re...really passionate about spaghetti, huh?_

“M _hm_.”

At some point Toriel starts dishing up the soup, and you spare a moment to wonder how the hell the skeletons are supposed to eat it, or indeed eat _anything_ , before remembering the reason: magic. Well, it’s a lot more complicated than that - you know, because you remember Toriel explaining it to you and As- to you. ‘Magic’ is a pretty accurate summary, though.

You’re only a few bites (slurps? sips? soup is weird) in when Alphys sneezes suddenly, and devolves into a horrible coughing fit that lasts entirely too long. It’s not a healthy sound at all. Frisk seems to share your opinion, and in their quiet, concerned little voice that somehow even Undyne hears through her own fretting, they tell her she should go to bed.

Alphys protests, weakly - “B-but the soup!” - but Undyne all for the idea, and just picks her up like she did to you earlier. “Frisk!!” says Undyne, and it’s only ‘says’ and not ‘shouts’ because that seems to be her normal indoor voice. At this point you’re not sure whether Papyrus picked up the habit from Undyne or vice versa. “Take me to your guest room!!”

Frisk hops down off their chair and scurries towards the stairs, Undyne hot on your heels and Alphys still protesting this treatment - she’s giggling through her sneezes, though, so she’s not that angry about it. It’s pretty funny, really. You thunder up the stairs, all of you grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote ~800 words at the weekend and decided on the hilariously funny chapter title of _'did bethesda design this reality, or'_ , then decided I hadn't explained enough and wrote another 1200 words. which left me with chapter-length 2100 words but no closer to the reason I titled it what i did. so yeah, look forward to the next chapter? please feel free to speculate what the hell that means, but I'm not saying _aaaanything_.
> 
> unrelated: the song [The Beach by the NBHD](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DujKJ1OaLQE) is giving me chara+frisk feelings, please either send help or come suffer with me.


	4. so did bethesda design this reality, or

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha betcha thought this was gonna be cute or something

 

Between Frisk and Undyne, Alphys is settled in pretty quickly. The guest room - or rather, this particular guest room, because besides Frisk’s room and Toriel’s room, there’s another _three_ \- is a little on the smaller side, but it’s painted a cheery yellow that you absolutely loathe.

There are nice shades of yellow. Your favourite flower is yellow, for example, and you remember your wardrobe being full of green and yellow clothing. Those are _acceptable_ shades of yellow. The awful paint in here is not one of them. You don’t approve. You inform Frisk of this, and they just laugh at you. Which is rude.

Still. The patient doesn’t seem to mind, especially when Undyne tells her she’ll nab two bowls of soup and come sit with her, so she doesn’t feel too left out. You’re kinda disappointed; Undyne’s loud and shouty, usually a terrible combination, but you think she’s pretty fun - _especially_ when paired with the skeleton. You kinda really want to see what else they get each other riled up over.

Toriel calls you down after a bit - your soup’s getting cold, and nobody likes cold soup. Frisk has one foot on the stairs when Undyne calls them back. “Hey, thanks for that,” she says, and frankly you’re amazed: she does have an indoor voice! Although maybe this is her version of whispering. Hm. “I don’t think she’d’ve gone anywhere if you hadn’t suggested it. I tried to convince her this morning, but she _really_ wanted to make sure you were okay - can’t fault her for that, I guess, you gave us _all_ a real scare. Don’t do that again, y’hear me?” Frisk nods, smiling wanly. Undyne grins back, all solemnity evaporated, and she raises a hand, palm first.

And everything goes wrong.

She has two arms. One by her side, one outstretched. Fingers glitch into anatomically impossible configurations. The opacity of her skin flickers on and off like some freaky messed up dissection tutorial - skin, bone, muscle, back to skin, and you don’t believe in any god but right now you feel like praying to one. Frisk’s eyes dart to Undyne’s face and, _jesus_ , you wish they hadn’t, because it’s _so much worse_. Bits and pieces of her flicker in and out of reality, in and out of their proper places, and the worst part is _she hasn’t even noticed._

She’s still smiling, still talking, but it’s a garbled mess from a throat that’s alternatively whole and in pieces, oscillating back and forth, back and forth, like a television picture with a faulty signal. She seems to be expecting a high five.

Frisk leaves her hanging, and nearly falls backwards down the stairs in their haste to get the _hell_ away from- from- from _whatever that is_ , and towards their parents, and safety - except, as they stumble on the bottom steps, the big furry paw that comes to catch them passes right through their shoulder and they plant face-first into the rug. They’re not still for long, though, scrambling to their feet and backing away from Asgore, whose concerned expression is entirely mitigated by the fact the lampshade is currently swinging _through_ his horns.

This is… _entirely_ too much.

Frisk legs it, and doesn’t even bother to slam the front door behind them.

 

 

**.\|/.**

 

You can’t tell if things are better or worse outside. Certainly one clear advantage is that you’re moving too fast to see many of the details, but what you _do_ see is screwed up enough and, god, if Frisk’s having nightmares already, what’ll they be like _now?_

As a spectator, though, you don’t have to concentrate on where you’re going, and though it’s a really bad idea that’ll give _you_ nightmares, you focus on the things you’re passing. There’s a woman whose arms are so long that her hands are brushing through the ground, while her grocery bags float next to her as if she were still carrying them. A cat pads nonchalantly across the road, three feet above the tarmac. There’s half a pot plant sticking out of someone’s wall. A bird flutters by without flapping its wings. A dog lunges halfway through a door right in front of you, leaving its legs behind, and Frisk is startled into the road - and right into the path of an oncoming car.

 **_*_ ** **_FRISK, MOVE!_ **

The car swerves, but Frisk pays it no mind and takes off down the pavement anew, and you can feel your heart hammering in your ears even worse than before, and _holy crap you almost died,_ and now they’re getting out of breath, you can feel the burn in your lungs and limbs. Then things start getting really blurry through the tears, which is maybe an improvement at this point, but it does nothing for Frisk’s agility and they trip over a crack in the pavement. They go down like a sack of bricks, skinning both knees and an arm and ripping holes in their pyjama trousers. They crawl to the side of the walkway where there’s a little alcove, their back pressing up against the wall as they draw their stinging knees up to their chin. Salty tears in an open wound is not a good idea, but you doubt they’re going to listen to you properly anytime soon - and _god_ , do you blame them? They’re probably concentrating on not having a heart attack.

You try calming them down anyway, like Asgore used to do. Meaningless phrases like, _* There, there_ , and _* It’ll all be okay, you’ll see,_ but you’re beginning to think it was more the warmth and the safety that helped you than the words. You’re not very good at this.

Nobody’s followed you, as far as you can tell. Not that you can hear much over the sobbing, or see much through the tears, but it’s still pretty early, and this is a residential area - there shouldn’t be many people around. And if there are, well, it’s not their problem, is it? They’re not gonna help.

You make an attempt at talking to them again, but Frisk doesn’t even react. They’re still just shaking. Their whimpers aren’t getting any quieter either, and in all honesty it’s starting to grate - don’t they get it? There might be no-one around, but you can’t just... _cry_ for ages. That’s stupid, not to mention unproductive. You’d frown if you had eyebrows.

 _* Hey, Frisk, you alright?_ you ask them, and that’s a stupid question if ever you heard one, but it’s a direct one and if they’re gonna answer they’ll have to stop crying, right? Well, apparently not, because they just shake their head mutely and carry right on crying. _* Just...calm down, okay? It’s not the end of the world._ You pause. * _Well, maybe it is, I can’t exactly prove anything right now, but listen! Crying is stupid! Panicking won’t solve anything! Get up and do something, or so help me, I will do it myself!_ You’re maybe slightly yelling now, angry at them because they’re being so _damn_ _useless_ , angry at yourself because you know _full_ well this isn’t helping either but you can’t stop yourself, angry at the world because maybe _you_ deserve this, but Frisk sure doesn’t, and neither do their friends. _* Get up right now, or I will get you up!_

They’re only crying harder. You regret everything already, but you can’t just _stop_ \--

You set your jaw, metaphorically. You have to do this now, no backsies. You don’t want to, but they’re doing _nothing_ , and you _told_ them, you _warned_ them, they’ve forced your hand - they _won’t_ make you a hypocrite.

You gather up every scrap of your determination and throw yourself at the barriers they put up, and it’s like punching a window: it’s tough, it’s jarring, but the cracks are spreading, and suddenly it all gives way and you have glass in your hands and tears in your eyes and oh good god your head, it hurts, it _hurts_ , Frisk is _screaming_ at you-- _* I fucking trusted you! Asriel was right...!!_

You black out.

 

**.\|/.**

 

_You’re in a house you haven’t seen in years, one you never called home. Fear fills you; there are raised voices downstairs, you hate your tiny boxroom bedroom, but you’d do anything to avoid them_

_he works. He works a lot. You don’t see him much, and when you do he’s tired, or busy, or both. Not now, kiddo, go play in your room. You do. Loneliness fills you. You don’t even want to play, not really, you just want to_

_hide. You have to hide. She’s here, and you can hear in her footsteps that she’s unsteady - she’s been out drinking, and you know what’s next if you don’t pretend like you’re not here, so you crawl underneath your bed and_

_you slip out the window. Which would probably have been less scary if this weren’t an apartment building, but the metal walkway is right there, and you weren’t bad in gym. If your dad can’t play with you, maybe you’ll find your own entertainment, he won’t even notice_

_it’s not very shiny. There’s patches of rust on the metal, and it’s flimsy, not like the ones in the kitchen that he now kept in a little locked box. He’s a hypocrite - that’s a new word you like - he lets her hurt you, but he won’t let you_

_walk. You walk a long time, and you find yourself having fun. Crunching through the fallen leaves, jumping over puddles. You wave at the dogs and cats you see in people’s windows, and you think, I should do this more often, and maybe_

_no more. that’s what you tell yourself. no more of this, no more, you can’t_

_blue lights behind you, it’s dark, a kindly voice tells you to come back, come with them_

_blood. blood on your hands, on your clothes, on her, someone is screaming, screaming_

_home, but your window is locked, and so’re the others, and so’s the door, you can’t_

 

**.\|/.**

 

Light. A voice, weirdly familiar. You open your eyes.

There’s...a flower. One of your favourite  golden flowers. Except this one has a face, and it’s making a weird expression that’s maybe a cross between curious and confused and...afraid…? Well, whatever.

“Howdy,” it says after a moment, and you think it’s expecting something from you. Maybe Frisk knows them…? But no, they’re not going to help you now. You can hear them in the back of your head; they’re still whimpering a little. You feel bad about that, and what you did, but...you warned them. You said.

The flower coughs impatiently.

“ _What?_ ” you snap. You're not in the mood for this.

“Wow, tetchy,” says the flower. “Not like you at all, Frisk.”

“...Do I know you?” you ask. Frisk hasn’t mentioned them, that’s for sure, and they mentioned a lot of monsters in their stories.

The flower seems at a loss. “I’m Flowey,” he says, “Flowey the flower? Did you hit your head or something?”

“Or something,” you mutter. Your head still feels all scrambled. Those...memories?...weren’t all yours. You’ve never lived in a block of flats. Certainly you never wanted to _play_ with your ‘parents’. So…could those… could those have been Frisk’s? The ‘you’ in them, the person whose they were...they sounded like they could be. But...did that mean that Frisk saw _your_ memories too…?

“-ara?” Your head snaps up. The flower recoils, but before either of you know it, you’ve a hand wrapped tight around his stem.

 _“How do you know that name?”_ you hiss, low and dangerous, and Flowey the flower seems to wilt before your eyes.

“H-hey, there’s n-no need for v-violence,” he stutters.

“Tell me!” You start to squeeze.

“I-it’s _me!_ ” he cries, and suddenly his face and voice _shift_. “Your best friend! P-please-- please don’t k-kill me!”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He squeaks as your expression turns murderous. How _dare_ this miserable wretch--

“P-please, Chara! I’m sorry! I’m sorry I-” he babbles, with a stolen tongue and a stolen face, and you’re not listening anymore.

Because this can’t be. He’s dead. He died a long, long time ago, and he can’t come back. But then... didn’t you? You’re dead, you’re done, but you’re still here, somehow. Why not him, too? At least he’d deserve it. Not like you. If you hadn’t t- if he hadn’t died, he could’ve--

No.

Stop.

It was his own fault. His own stupid, idiotic fault that he got himself killed. You told him the plan. You wrote it down, too, just in case, and you told him, you got him to repeat it back to you, word perfect. You wanted to do this for them, for the only people you’d ever loved, the ones who never held anything against you, even though what you did was unforgivable, the ones who cared, who deserved the sun and the stars more than anyone else, the ones who helped you and stopped you from-- from--

You’re only human, and that’s the worst realisation you’ve ever come to. You were starting to think that, maybe, maybe you could be better. Maybe you could be a better human. But you were wrong, humans can only hurt, and therefore _you_ can only hurt, but _you don’t want to_ , you won’t let yourself hurt them, and if they won’t stop you, _you will stop yourself---_

“-didn’t betray you last time, I swear! I-”

“‘ _Last_ time’?” What ‘last time’? There was only one time. Once. Compared all the times you-- no. Not now.

“I-I thought you’d appreciate it! We’re partners, right? What’s your plan this time? I can help! I can be useful!” His face has changed back to how it was when you woke up, and you’re not sure if you’re relieved or...or not.

You...you want to believe it’s him. You want to believe that if you came back, unworthy as you are, then so did he. You don’t care about the ‘how’ right now. Because - and _god_ , you’re an idiot, and you don’t have the right to call him that, after all the things you did, but - because he’s your brother. Your best friend. And he didn’t deserve to have _you_ as his.

“Yeah,” you say, slowly. “You can help. Do you know anything about these weird glitches…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that my art style is every bit as consistent as my update schedule :^)


	5. ask, and nobody shall even believe ye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays :^)
> 
> edit: sorry for the repost! it wasn't showing up in the UT archive for some reason? hopefully this has fixed it :/

The two of you walk in silence. Asr- Flowey is wrapped around your arm, just as your hand is still wrapped around his stem; you want to trust him, like you always could, but it’s been a hundred years. You’ve both changed. Heck, he nearly _bit_ you when you called him by his old name! He apologised immediately, of course, and pleaded with you not to kill him a few dozen more times.

You don’t like how guilty that makes you feel. He could have been king by now. You made him into this.

You’d agreed to take him back to the house. The glitches in the street seem to have abated for now and he had no idea what you were talking about, but you hoped that going back to the place you’d first seen the phenomenon might help, or at least trigger something. Frisk’s not happy about this at _all_ ; they haven’t said anything, but they’re pounding on your defences and giving you a wicked headache. You’re not going anywhere, though. Not when the alternative is sitting back and having to watch them cry like a useless idiot. You _won’t_ feel bad for them. They brought this on themself.

“Are you alright?” asks Flowey. He looks…concerned, almost. Must’ve noticed your expression.

“Peachy,” you tell him. “The world is ending and I have a splitting headache. I feel just great.”

“Wasn’t that the plan, though? Well, not the headache. But the rest.”

Um, what? “No?” Why would you want the world to end? You live here. That’s a terrible plan. “Why would that be the plan?”

Now it’s Flowey’s turn to be confused. “Isn’t that what you wanted last time?”

“That’s the third time you’ve mentioned a ‘last time’, and I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Flowey frowns. “But...you know. Last time. Last reset. Before all this... _niceness_. I guess Frisk got out, huh? But now you’re back! We can start again!”

You don’t like where this is going. You really, really don’t. The roots wrapped around your arm suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, and you think you may have made a mistake. Maybe there was a reason Frisk never told you about him.

Wait.

Did Frisk know that he was…?

_Asriel was right!_

You stop walking.

“Hey, Flowey,” you say, all false lightheartedness and cheer. “When I took over, Frisk said you were right about me. D’you wanna tell me what you meant?”

Panic blossoms on his face, and the previous topic of conversation is thankfully forgotten. You’ve always been good at manipulating him, you muse; that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, I was angry, and I--” You were about to cut him off, because frankly you’re sick of the apologising for all sorts of reasons - and, well, you do. Just not in the way you expected. Instead of a dispassionate _‘forget about it’_ , what comes out of your mouth is a surprised squawk that has your hands flying to your face to cover your shame because you did _not_ just do that. No way, no how. You’re tough and unflappable and anyway what the heck is going on? You’re floating, and for all the physics classes you missed you don’t think this is a natural occurrence. There’s...a blueish glow to the air, you notice.

As for your companion... Flowey either detached himself from you or was forcibly removed, and he’s floating a little out of arm’s reach. And wow, he looks even more frightened than he did ten seconds ago, and that’s quite a feat.

Maybe you should be a little more concerned than you currently are.

A skeleton steps into view. The short one, Sans. You’re not sure where he stepped _from_ , and it’s weirding you out because there’s no sidestreets here and he wouldn’t have been in someone’s house, right? But whatever, he’s looking at you, and it’s not happily.

“hey kid,” he says as he approaches. “y’wanna tell me what’s going on over here?”

You got yourself through an evening with yo-Frisk’s parents without them suspecting anything, so you can get through this conversation too, no problem. You keep quiet, and give him a confused frown.

“nah? that’s okay, i can guess.” He walks a little closer, so your eyes are about level. The empty eyesocket is pretty creepy and the glowing one is worse, but, really, who are you to judge? If you could look that intimidating, you absolutely would. “and i guess it’s probably not something good.”

You raise your eyebrows a little further. Boy, is it nice having eyebrows again. Even if they’re only scary in their thickness.

“still goin’ with the silent treatment, eh? not like you, frisk.” He frowns, then, and the glowing eye flickers to Flowey before returning. “...or maybe it’s _entirely_ like you. man, that’s a bummer. i’d really hoped we were onto something here, y’know? something a bit different. a bit nicer for the rest of us. i shoulda known you wouldn’t let us go that easy. so, what’s the plan this time, eh, kiddo? take down the barrier, give us a few years, then start up another war? or are you gonna do the hunting yourself? the thrill of the chase, and all that.”

...Uh. “What are you even _talking_ about?” So long for your silence.

“nice try, bud. clearly your acting skills have improved. i wasn’t even subtle this morning, and you didn’t so much as flinch. figured it was a good sign, but hey, i’ve been wrong before. i mean, i never figured you’d want a sidekick, but here’s this angry buttercup anyway. what d’you need him for? bait? sacrifice?”

“He’s not a buttercup,” you say petulantly. Well, he’s not. You’d know. Oh, you’d _know_.

Sans rolls his eyes. Eye. “sure, sure, whatever floats your cup of tea. but what’s he _for_ , huh? you’re not the kinda person to do anything on a whim, so what’s your reason? there something special that happens if you got daisy here as a party member?”

Maybe if you keep him talking, someone’ll come rescue you.

Ha, unlikely. He might end up explaining something, though, and that’s a good enough reason for you. “Not a daisy, either.”

“hey, what can i say, i’m a comedian, not a botanist. you gonna answer with anything useful? oh, wait, do you just not want the plant to know? i hear ya, you can whisper it if you want.”

“...C-Chara…?” says a voice from beside you, hesitant and fearful. Oh boy. You’re not gonna look at him. You really aren’t, because this situation had been _salvageable_ before he’d said anything, that  _idiot_.

“chara, is it?” asks Sans, a little too gleefully for your liking. “now where’ve i heard _that_ name before? hmm, i _wonder_ \--”

“Oh, spare me the drama,” you tell him. “I can tell you know who I am. Maybe you know who _he_ is, too,” you nod in Flowey’s direction, and you unfortunately don’t miss his flinch, “but, both figuratively and literally, I just woke up and I have no idea what either of you are talking about. I’d appreciate an explanation around about now. Please tell me what the heck I’ve just walked into.”

Sans and Flowey exchange glances.

“Explanation,” you demand, crossing your arms.

“uh,” says the skeleton. “sure. okay. you know about resets, yeah?”

“Not really.”

“oh. okay then. buttercup, you wanna explain that one? i’m sure you know _plenty_ more than i do.”

Flowey...does not look comfortable with this. “Uh,” he begins, “I-if you have enough determination, you can go back to a certain point in time? Yours...yours is when Frisk first entered the underground. Probably. You could...you could reset to back then. Nobody would remember anything, except me. And the smiley trashbag, I suppo-agh!”

“yeah, less insults, thanks - i don’t have the _stamen_ -a for that right now.” You have to smother a giggle. For all this conversation’s seriousness, that was pretty good. “bottom line is you’re a time traveller. got that?”

You take a moment to process that. You can travel back in time. Or rather, Frisk can. That's...no less believable than anything else you've seen today, really. “ _Thyme_ -travel? I’ve _twigged_ , yeah. _Yew_ wanna get to the _root_ of the issue now?” you reply, because, revelations aside, how could you _possibly_ resist?

Sans nearly drops you.

“hey, _teak_ ing my lines? you’re _aspen_ for trouble,” he says, and you think maybe you’re getting somewhere until the jokiness in his tone vanishes entirely. A chill goes down your spine. “but seriously. you’ve reset a lot. as in, ‘hundreds upon hundreds of times’ a lot. and lately you haven’t been very nice. y’hear me? dunno how many times exactly - i can only write so much down - but over and over again, you know what you’ve done? you killed everyone you could get your dusty little hands on. and i mean _everyone._ tori, papyrus, undyne, mettaton...me. the king, no doubt, and your little buddy here. then you’d reset, and do it all over again. for fun, i guess, though i can’t say i ever want to understand your fucked up sense of humour. and then one day you decided to play nice. spare us, break the barrier. live like a normal person. and now what? what’s the plan, now, huh?”

Your lips are moving but there’s no sound coming out, and you think that if he wasn’t holding you your knees would’ve given out. He shakes you, like he did to Flowey, and you can’t help the whimper that escapes you. “found a new way of fucking everything up, have you? can’t you just let them be _happy_ for once, you _sick f--”_

\--and all of a sudden your world is _pain,_ white hot and blinding like a hand on the kettle, on the stove, in the fireplace, and _glass_ , glass in your eyes, and you think you might be screaming but it’s hard to tell when your senses are pain and agony white and blind and god, your _head-_ \- you feel like something’s moving past you grabbing at your fingers your feelings and the alien words build up in your throat,  _* I can fi_ ”x all this!” and you’re gone.

.

.

.

_Chara!_

_You have to stay determined!_

_You cannot give up just yet..._

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alrighty then, and on that bombshell I have some bad news? but first- I am not abandoning this. I really definitely am not, okay? okay. but since I last posted I've developed so many headcanons, not to mention how I want to end this, and I need to do some smallish rewrites before I go any further. I was gonna go 'webcomic rules'* on this, but I don't think I can happily make this new ending work without a little more setup. idek how much I need to change yet tbh, but my 3 guidelines are basically 1. more foreshadowing, 2. more feelings, and 3. actually lines up with the ending. so chapter 6 will only go up when I'm done with that.  
>    
>  whiiiich brings us to bad news #2 which is: I have so little time rn oh my god. it's been nearly a month since I updated last, and I'm only posting now bc christmas holidays and therefore intense procrastination. bio coursework will be the death of me probably. put it on my gravestone.
> 
> but yes. anyway. since this is a shorter chapter that I left on one hell of a cliffhanger and nobody has even slightly made up and, as things stand, won't for a long, long while, please take this complementary image of an awkward sibling hug.
> 
> *webcomic rules: don't ever go back and redo old pages even if you hate them because you'll just get trapped in an endless loop of redrawing things because your art skills keep improving and making your redos look bad. (I think I'm doing this early enough that I shouldn't get caught up in this - plus im too lazy and easily distracted to do anything endlessly lol)


	6. my english teacher would murder me if she saw this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLASHING GIF WARNING! it's at the very end of this (short) chapter, so if you have problems with those, don't scroll beyond the word 'ground', ok?
> 
> "i don't know when c6 will be out, but probably not for a long time," she says. hahahaha. ahha. hah. chapters are all done and revamped - chapter 1 is basically all-new (well, same events but like. double the length and with more confusion). c2 was edited in light of that, slightly extended, and the illustration reshaded bc it's always bothered me. c3 and c5 have only very minor changes, and c4 has some added bits. so you might wanna go back and read those first. or not. idk, I can't tell you what to do.
> 
> edit: not showing in the archive /again/ wtf

You don’t know what to do. He’s not moving, not doing anything, not eating, barely sleeping, and all the food in the fridge has gone off but he won’t move except to take the door keys back off you when you find them again, 

and you stumble and trip, headfirst down the stairs, but it’s not your first fall and you know how to land and you know how to ignore the pain in your arm, your back, and

all you want to do is go down to the shop, you weren’t running away in the first place, you don’t hate him, really you don’t, you’re just

running too fast, too slow, you feel like you’re colliding with everything in your path, but you have to run, you have to

leave, his voice ringing in your ears, it’s not the first time he’s shouted at you but you think it’s the first time he’s meant it,and you understand, you understand at last

you have to stop, have to plan, so you duck into an alley and even though you’re stopped your heart still thumps like, like a thumping thing, and you realise that in your hand there’s still

money stolen from his wallet, for the bus ride, and you hate yourself for it because he’s right, he’s right, he’s always right, you’re a leech, a bloodsucker, unwanted and awful, you’re a burden and

so you take the hiker’s trail, for a little while, and when it stops you keep climbing because you don’t care that the mountain is dangerous, experienced climbers only, it doesn’t matter when you don’t want to ever

go back, and you’re determined that you won’t be a burden anymore, you’ll free him from you, you’ll go and live on the mountain like the guy from the nature channel who did that talk in your school, he was so

stupid, stupid, scared of a little lightning - you know what you came here to do, and you’re still taking shelter from the stupid rain like an idiot, you stumble into the cave, hoping maybe there’s a bear, but

you

trip.

air rushes past your ears

your injured arm hits the wall, again, 

again, you scream

it’s so dark

but

there’s a shape

a face

and?

you don’t remember this?

not cruel.

not kind.

watching.

waiting.

the mouth,

wide and black and melting,

opens -

t̛͈͕̝̼̙̺h͚̤̖e̹̼̮͙͞r̵̺̝̹e͖͍͙̤͕ ̮i̡̪̜͎̙̤ͅs̵̲̣̮̼͙͚̯ ͈̪͇͓̮a̴̻͙̭̤ͅ

h̨̥͈̮̳̱̙͕̦͢͡ơ̹̣̲͈͓̤͕̠͘r͡͏͇̩̱̙̻̼̯r҉̤̤͖̘͉̳i͖f͍̥̬̪̜͖̠̰ͅį̴̻̘͓̺̤̳̱c͇̣͈͓͚͚̣̝ ҉̱͇̼͈̫͓̦͎s̻̝̤͚͈͞ó̧̖͇̪̩̟̻u̝̱̼̩̱͝n͙͖̘͕̼͘͜d̬̹̣̹̦̗͓́͢

you try to cover your ears, but the wind won’t let you,

and you’d hear it in your bones anyway.

you scream.

your hand phases through your face.

you scream.

gold below you -

the face vanishes, and

you 

hit

the

ground

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this isn't really much of a chapter, but a lot can happen in 450 words, and look! more backstory! feelings! scientist from the void! 
> 
> that illustration (gif + static versions) are up on [my tumblr here](http://42gramsofspite.tumblr.com/post/136402566133/illustration-for-chapter-6-of-bones-skin-shits), and if you're vaguely interested, my tag for my writing is [#spite writes](http://42gramsofspite.tumblr.com/tagged/spite-writes).
> 
> also I realise the wingdings/zalgo text aren't massively legible, so what it says is:
> 
> there is a  
>  horrific sound  
>  WHAT ARE YOU DOING  
>  DO YOU THINK YOU ARE ABOVE CONSEQUENCES?
> 
> p.s. more song recs (i swear I'm gonna have to do a playlist of frisk & chara songs at this rate): [Artifice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aw4RSGe4GoU) and [The Wheel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaBspvzGqKU), both by Sohn. like, damn.


	7. i could think of worse places to have this conversation, but not many

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt title: 'these kids are fucking brutal, what is their damag- oh yeah right duh'
> 
> surprise frisk pov! for a character who prefers to say little, this is the most dialogue I've ever written. also wtf am i doing that keeps not making this display in the archive? gdi.
> 
> ...pls keep in mind that these two tiny children are really very stressed and confused and angry, and that it's easier to intentionally hurt someone if you know where they're coming from (and have their memories, but um. anyway.)

You come to slowly and painfully, but that’s par for the course at this point. Nostalgic, even. All those reloads, forced or not… Fun times. What’s not so fun, however, the shrill voice shouting in your ear. You open your eyes - and, thank god, they really are  _ your _ eyes again, and it was definitely you who opened them. You sit up, slowly because your head aches something awful, and look around because hell if you remember when you last saved. Three years, yeah, but more specifically?

Well, it’s clearly a school day, seeing as you’re at school and all. And there’s MK beside you, looking very concerned. “Yo, you okay, Frisk?”

You nod, and give them a smile. You’re absolutely great. You’ve lost three years, your legs are too short and your hair too long, but you fixed the issue. You can deal. You always have.

“Are you sure? I fall over a lot, yo, but that looked real bad! Oh, I know - hey, how many stripes are there on my shirt?” they ask. Their shirt today depicts a cartoon tyrannosaurus. It’s not a stripy one, either.

You frown. “None?”

“Yeah!” cheers MK, and when they grin their teeth clip harmlessly through their lip. Your heart skips a beat and sinks all the way down to your shoes, and aren’t you glad you’re still sitting because you’d probably have fallen over.

_ * It’s not  _ that  _ bad,  _ says a grumpy voice in your head, and then all you can hear is static because  _ you’ve lost three years and nothing is any better. _

No, no, no, stop. Deep breaths. In-two-three, out-two-three. You have an audience, and you’ve still no clue what today is. Why were you so determined to save here, anyway? No, no matter. “Don’t feel well,” you manage.

“Oh no,” they say, horror painted all over their scaly features. Except they’re not scaly anymore, and seem to have lost all texture. You really  _ do _ feel sick now. “Should I go get your mum? Yo, hang on, Frisk, I’ll-” They turn to leave, but you stop them.

“M’okay!” you say. “Just...bathroom.”

MK is uncertain, but they trust you know what you’re doing. You don’t, but you appreciate the sentiment. “If you’re sure, yo,” they say, and they help you towards the bathrooms. You tell them they should go get ready for class - your watch says it’s nearing the end of break - and though they still think they should get your mum, you insist you’ll catch up. It’ll be fine. 

_ * Wow, a unisex bathroom! Didn’t have these back in  _ my _ day. _

Even if you stay in here forever. Once MK’s gone, you shut yourself in the cubicle furthest from the door, put down the toilet lid, and let the tears come. It’s not the most hygienic place to cry, but there’s a lock on the door and with classes so soon nobody’s gonna come in here. You’re safe.

_ * This is getting really old, _ says the voice,  _ * really fast. _

You’ve never hated anyone, not really, but damn it if you’re not getting close. Why can’t they just go away and leave you alone? You thought this would all be okay. Good, even. You’d accepted that you couldn’t save everyone; you’d had to. Poor Asriel. You offered him  _ your _ soul, on multiple occasions, but not even Flowey would accept it. When you accidentally woke Chara, you thought it would all be for the best. Maybe Flowey would finally let you help him, or at least talk to his sibling or, or something. You could all be happy.

Except… Sans. From the beginning you could see it, but only now do you realise  _ why: _ you. You and your fucking resets, all those hundreds that you don’t even remember. All the little catnaps he takes, never deep enough to dream, how he never seems to sleep at night, how you couldn’t sneak up on him while wearing that old blue jumper without incident. And it’s not just him, either; you know the rest of your family have occasional nightmares too. It’s something rarely spoken of, at least where you can overhear, and while you always worried and wondered you never knew you were the cause.

God, how can they stand you? Even if only Sans knows it was real. How can they stand the sight of you?

_ * Are you going to do anything at all today? _

You’re startled out of your thoughts, but you sure haven’t forgotten them. You frown. “Don’t you  _ care?” _

_ * About what? _

“K-killing everyone! Over a-and over!”

There’s a pause, like they’re mulling it over. Like they hadn’t even thought about it, but you know they have because you wouldn’t have been able to overcome them otherwise.  _ *  _ I _ don’t remember it. Apparently neither do you. How do either of us know it really ever happened? _

“Sans s-said.”

They scoff. _ * What, and you’d believe him if he told you the sky was green too, huh? _

“He wouldn’t lie about this.”

_ * You don’t know that. You can’t ever know that about anyone. _

That’s a horrible viewpoint. What’s worse is that you can understand it. “Can too.” You’re not going to admit that, though. Not when they’re acting like your old school bullies. Or is this what they’re really like, and they were just acting like a friend? Asriel said they weren’t the greatest, and you think you’ll trust him on that one. You’ve seen the evidence. You won’t ignore the cause, but you’ve seen the evidence.

_ * You can’t. But whatever. Keep believing that all you want, it’s as true as Santa. Oh, sorry, did I spoil something…? _

You roll your eyes. That was poor, even by your standards. “‘M not a baby.”

_ * Of course not. Babies don’t go around murdering everyone. You, though... _

“I would  _ never,” _ you hiss.

_ * Then why d’you feel bad about it? _

“Because it was  _ my _ hands!” Wait, you’ve said that before. When…?

_ * Oh, but you weren’t controlling them? They did it all themselves? _

They stabbed a man, with your hands. Their only reply’d been flippancy. Could the same be true here…? “It was  _ you _ .”

_ * ...Are you kidding me? Do you really think I’d hurt Tor-? _

Oh, please. You know them better than that. “You stabbed your own mother,” you say, slowly and deliberately, like a masochist with a plaster. You don’t care that you’re going to regret this. All you can think about is how if they’re still here, they must have always been with you. And if they’ve always been able to, to just take over like that? Well. You would never have hurt anyone. Right? “You stabbed that man. You poisoned Asgore, and you got As-” 

_ *’'That man’ was about to  _ kill  _ you, _ they interrupt, _ * Da- Asgore was an  _ accident _ , and, and if you know that much about  _ **_her_ ** _ , then you know  _ **why** _. _

That’s a dangerous tone they’re taking. You should stop pushing. “And Asri-?”

_ * Shut up. You don’t know anything. _

You should _ really _ stop pushing. “I know it was your faul-”

They slam themself against your defences, and though you were half expecting it you can’t help the yelp of pain that escapes you.  _ * Shut UP.  _

They’ve...made their point.

Chara doesn’t say another word, and neither do you.

Your eyes roam around the cubicle, however much of a bad idea that is. The glitches are still here, and they don’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon: the right cubicle wall is a mass of featureless orange, and you’ve noticed that if you lean at a certain angle, all the walls become transparent. Thankfully you’re the only one in here, or else that would be horribly embarrassing.

You draw your knees up to your chest and bury your hot, wet face in your arms. Another kid might’ve asked what they’d done to deserve this, or plead with some higher authority for justice. You, though, you know exactly what you did. Well. Not exactly, but enough. You know enough of what you did, and in some sick way you’re happy you’re paying for it. You let out a shuddery sigh, and before you know it you’re crying again. Ha, this’ll annoy Chara.

A bell goes, somewhere. It’s funny, because Mum insisted on it - no other school in the country has a bell, you’re pretty sure. It’s so twentieth century; your old school just used a low beep.  Either way, you’re officially late for class. You don’t move an inch, though, eyes closed and trembling. You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be twelve again. So much happened in those three years, and now it’s gone. Just like that. Because of you. God, you’re so useless.

It takes you a moment to realise quite how painfully your nails are digging into your knee, and you forcibly relax your hands. You remember finally deciding that you’d outgrown these shorts last summer, and fuck you if that doesn’t make you cry harder.

Head in your arms, you don’t notice the way the tiles seem to flicker in and out of reality, exposing the grout underneath, and you don’t notice how the toilet paper at your elbow is half stuck in the wall. You  _ do _ notice the bathroom door swinging open, footsteps, and the cheerful voice that follows. The glitches vanish.

“Hey Chara, I’ve incapacitated the smiley trashbag!” calls a very smug Flowey.

There’s a noise of surprise. Well, that’s why there were footsteps, then. “wait,  _ char-? _ ”

“Shut up, you, or I’ll break your jaw. You might’ve surprised us last time, but not today!” says the flower to the skeleton, before continuing to talk to the person in your head. “That was some really great acting there by the way, nearly had  _ me _ fooled! Good thing I know you better than that. So, you gonna tell me the plan now?”

You really don’t want this conversation right now. “Fuck off, Flowey.”

“...Chara?” he inquires, hesitantly. He sounds quite taken aback. Thinking about it, you’ve never really heard Chara swear at all. That’s...kinda weird, you think, given their personality.

You’re still not having this conversation, though. Sans can take care of himself. Just like he took care of you. “I’m _ Frisk _ , and I’m  _ not talking to you _ .”

“Good,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “Let Chara talk, then.”

You don’t answer.

“... Are you doing it?”

You continue to be unresponsive.

“...Hello-o?”

You will sit here silently forever if you must.

Then you hear movement, and your eyes flick to a growing shadow below the stall door. Flowey pokes his head underneath. “Chara?”

You burst into action, leaping from your seat and stamping on Flowey’s exposed stem. Teach him not to fuck off when you tell him to.  _ “Sans!”  _ you call, taking advantage of Flowey’s momentary shock.

More movement from beyond the door, and by the intensity of Flowey’s curses, it’s not going well for him. His defeat doesn’t take very long, and a blue glow soon surrounds him.

“nice one, kiddo,” says Sans. “you can let go, i’ve got him pinned.” You lift your foot, and Flowey disappears with a yelp. He’s still swearing. Wow, some of those you haven’t even heard before.

Anyway, Flowey is dealt with now, so you retake your seat. It’s exactly as uncomfortable as it was earlier.

“uh. kid?”

You’re not coming out. You’re not, because you just keep making everything worse and maybe if you stay here everything will be okay. You’d really like to not start crying again, too, because despite everything Sans might try to offer you sympathy and you don’t deserve that. The burn in your eyes and the tightness in your throat tell you that’s a pretty unlikely dream.

“kid? frisk? you okay in there?”

You let out a little sob.

“oh man, what’s wrong? speak to me, frisk, or, i dunno, text or somethi-”

“‘M s-sorry,” you mumble through the tears, and you’d so much rather just text but it’s important to say this aloud, “I-I‘m so sorry, I d-don’t even  _ remember _ , but you wouldn’t  _ lie, _ and I’m  _ so sorry-” _

“hey, hey, slow down there bucko,” he says, and even through the blur you can see he’s standing right by the door. “deep breaths. in one, two, three. out one, two, three.” You do as he says, and after a few shaky breaths you do feel a little better. “that’s it. d’you wanna try explaining again? it’s ok if you don’t.”

You can’t quite find your voice right now, so you pull your (old) phone out of your pocket, and type.

> **why are you being so nice to me???**
> 
> **with evreything i did**

There’s a muffled farting noise from the other side of the door. There’s quiet as Sans retrieves his phone, and reads your message. He sighs. “kid. so. i take it future-me explained about, uh, your resets? he said you were acting real weird, and was gonna investigate. never made it back, though, so i guess you must’ve reloaded?”

You sniffle in agreement.

“then mr buttercup over here-”

“I’m NOT a buttercup!” Flowey yells. You almost smile.

“ _ mr buttercup _ ’s been calling you chara? which is a name that many future-mes - or past-mes at this point, i guess - warned me about. so. what’s up with that?”

> **theyre in my head**

“ah.”

> **i fucked up**
> 
> **i trusted them**
> 
> **nd then**

“...and then they committed genocide.”

> **y**
> 
> **n**
> 
> **idk i dont remember**
> 
> **they say they dont either**
> 
> **i only reset once? and thye only came yesterday. i dont remember anything b4 then, cept from**
> 
> **before.**
> 
> **thought reloading would get rid of them but theyre still here.**
> 
> **i reset three years for nothing**
> 
> **for absolutely fuck all**

“...geez, kid, i wondered why you looked so worried all the time. figured you were faking it, but you really don’t remember any other resets? not even in dreams?”

> **n**

“huh. guess that’s a good thing, really. hell if  _ i _ want to dream about that.” 

There’s a brief silence. You take advantage of it to wipe your face on your sleeve again and sniffle a little. Sans is the one to break it.

“so, kiddo. your mr hyde gonna make a surprise appearance anytime soon, or…?”

> **n**
> 
> **taking ctrl by force rly hurts**
> 
> **we both get ko d so**
> 
> **youll know**

“...knocked out?”

> ** think its the memories **

“memories?”

> **like memory exchange?**
> 
> **i saw theirs thye saw mine**
> 
> **i know its theirs bci asked them abt when they st**

_ * Don’t you even  _ dare, hisses Chara, and the venom in their voice makes you drop your phone.  _ * I never spilled any of  _ your _ secrets. _

Your phone’s slid in the next stall. You can’t reach it. “Didn’t  _ know _ any secrets.”

“uh.”

_ * I did too. I coulda told them allll about the nightmare, for one - never got the impression anyone knew about  _ those _ , hm? _

“Wrong.”

“frisk?”

_ * Suure it was. I got a lot of other impressions too, even before events conspired to confirm them. You can’t lie to  _ me, _ I’ve seen the signs, I’ve seen the sc- _

“...Fuck off, Chara .”

“ah.”

_ * Oh believe me, I would if I could, _ you growl.  _ *You think I’d still be here if I could leave? Heck no. This is your own damn faul- _

“ _ My _ fault? Not m-”

_ *  _ You _ called me here!  _ You _ woke me up! _

“I was gonna _ die!” _

“whoa, hey-”

_ * Yeah, and who stopped that from happening? _ Me. _ Because you’re a coward and you couldn- _

You inhale. “If cowardice means  _ not stabbing people _ , I’ll be the best fucking coward ever!”

“frisk, don’t listen t-”

_ * Hey, you know what else they call cowardly?  _ Suici-

“Shut  _ UP _ _!_ You’re no fucking better!”

They go silent. So does Sans, and you think Flowey’s been quiet since Sans mentioned Chara. You don’t think you’ve ever raised your voice that loud. Not in anger, and fucking hell you don’t think you’ve ever felt worse: you’re breathing heavily, your fists are clenched painfully, and your eyes are tearing up again.

You think maybe that’s it, maybe you’ve beat them, but then

_ * At least I succeeded. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw u write out a whole chapter then decide it'd be way better from a different pov
> 
> also note that typos in the text message bits are intentional, but anywhere else is not. so like. pls feel free to pick me up on that bc I am the most impatient and I only skim these things before I post them, lol.


End file.
